Clarity
by Naisumi
Summary: Dancing in the darkness with a shroud of rain... An introspective Scott piece with Lance/Scott romance and an actual happy ending :P [L/S--Slash]


Title: Clarity 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairing: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: Alex's very existence :D 

Warnings: Angst, sap, slash...uh, yes. Symbolism :D Profundity--all the usual. Oh, and introspective Scott in first person. 

  


Notes: Shibby! This is the first fic I've completed in ages. R&R and reward me for being a good girl? 

  


Additional Notes: Life sucks, Mor rocks, and Snapple is addictive :P 

  


  


-- 

All I have left of her is a CD. Brahms. It's classical music--piano, most of it. She used to listen to it all the time because she said that it calmed her. That it made everything still and peaceful. That it brought order to the world. I can't imagine how she hears it, because whenever I listen to it, I feel like I want to scream. There's something underlying the notes--there's something there that makes it feel like someone's plunged their hand into my chest and is twisting my heart around, their fingers clenched tight against its beating. I can hardly breathe. The music is potent, in a way I've never been able to find music. I'm into classical music, though, because I like the idea that you can put your own words to it--that you can put your own thoughts and moods and memories; match them up to the chords and scales that someone long-dead has listened to. There's something eerie about that--about listening to something that other people have listened to over the centuries; people who are now scattered about graveyards in the thousand millions. There's something eerie about tapping my foot on the ground in beat to a slow ballad-sounding piece called Romanze when I know the man who wrote it has been long gone; that this is all that's left. I wonder sometimes if someone might hear about something I did while I was alive. I wonder sometimes if I'll be memorable, if I'll have some legacy left once I pass away. Maybe that's why I try so hard--because I want to matter. That makes me nauseous, because that's the same thing that everyone else wants, too--to 'matter.' 

This CD isn't even really my mother's. The real copy got destroyed in the airplane--she had brought it so that I could listen to it on my Discman. It put me to sleep most of the time, if I put the volume on really low. I could hear her humming along, too, with whatever song I'm listening to. She had the whole CD memorized and could hum along with every piece on there--it fascinated me when I was little. My mother had a really beautiful voice--anyone has to have a pretty amazing voice if they can keep time with classical music and not sound completely terrible. At least, that's the way I look at it. 

I really loved my mother. She never expected anything of me--not anything beyond the usual, that is. I was always her 'little boy' even after I started getting old enough to look after Alex, or after I was old enough to stay home alone. She never expected me to be in charge, though. She always thought that it was terrible when they had to leave Alex and me alone, even for an hour or so. Whenever she got back, she'd give us both a hug and look me in the eye, saying, 'Thank you for being so brave, Scottie' or something like that. God, she had beautiful eyes. 

She always thanked me for things like that. Father, even though I know he loved me and I loved him, too, always just expected me to be like that. He always expected me to go above the call of duty--since, after all, I was the oldest and his son. I guess he saw some of himself in me, or so my mom told me, and that makes me proud. That's what I remember about him, a lot of the time--that he never treated me like a kid and always expected me to do my best. I like to think that I still do that, but sometimes I'm not too sure anymore. There's always that constant battle inside me--my mother's voice, soft and gentle, saying that I don't need to work so hard, that I should go to bed and stop studying because my health is more important than anything else--and my father's voice, saying that I had to strive to be the best, that one point missed on the next Physics test is unforgivable. My father wasn't a dictator or anything, don't get me wrong. He and my mother just had their priorities different, and I'm glad. That's why my childhood was so fulfilling--because I had a loving father who was worried about my future and a loving mother who was worried that I'd be afraid during a thunderstorm, or that I didn't eat enough at lunch. That's why my childhood was so fulfilling--except for the fact, of course, that it ended when I was eight. 

Outside, it's raining, and I'm listening to her CD. I like to listen to it when it's raining, because it reminds me of that calm that my mother said she felt whenever she listened to the very same songs that I'm listening to now. I've pretty much memorized them now so that I probably know them better than anyone who's actually playing them on the piano. At least, I think to think that I do. When I first bought this CD, I tore off the plastic wrapping and popped it in the stereo, almost afraid that I'd break the damn thing because of how hard I was shaking. It started to play and I tried to remember every single note--every single nuance, breath, swell and fall of the music. I sat next to the speaker with my head right by it, trying to drown in the music, and I nearly did. According to Jean, I'd cranked the volume up so loud that they could hear it in the kitchen. I hadn't meant to, but I guess I had did it anyway, subconsciously. I had listened to it a good couple of dozen times before I remember my mom telling me that in order to really _enjoy_ music, you've got to sit back and stop trying so hard. She was always telling me not to try so hard. 

I have to learn how to do that. Not to try so hard, that is. I've always been an overachiever--I guess, because of my dad. 'Sky's the limit, son,' he used to tell me, 'if you think you can do something, then you'd damn well do it.' He said that to me, even if it was about something as small as a diorama or book report. It was his motto that if you were going to do something, you'd 'best be damn good at it.' He used that word a lot--'damn'--and it drove my mother insane. She always told him to stop using that kind of language in front of us, and he'd just tell her that we'd heard it all before. Unfortunately, Dad was right, but it wasn't as if my mom was about to admit that her darling children had had their ears sullied. 

God, I loved my parents. I guess that's why I can't relate to Lance sometimes. His parents sounded like they were at the bottom of the chain--the boozed up abusive druggies that hated their kids and blamed everything on them. He doesn't talk about them much--I guess he believes in moving on too much to linger on the past. 

Lance Alvers. 

If anything was more messed up than that, I sure haven't heard of it. The whole thing was kind of screwy at first, because I had no idea what to make of him. It's kind of like when you don't like someone at first and you don't bother trying to think about him two ways to one, then you find out something that you shouldn't have and it makes everything completely different. Actually, it's not kind of like that--that was exactly how it was. 

Being with him at first wasn't even a sudden explosion of sensations or anything near that--being suddenly, inexplicably happy. Happiness isn't too intimate, I think, which would explain why I never experienced that--not at first; not with him. What's more intimate is relief--comfort. You can draw happiness from anything--but to be comforted, relieved from dismal loneliness because of someone's mere presence..._that_ is truly intimate. I'm happy a lot, or bordering on it, but that's only while I'm doing something; with Lance I simply have to be with him, and I'm--what's the word?--content. Oddly enough, I was never in denial about it--at least, I like to think I wasn't. I had to come to circumstances of a different sort with the violently intense emotions I had for him, though. That's why our relationship works on so many levels, I suppose, because when we kiss, I feel heady and relieved--when he holds me, I never want to move even to breathe--when I see him, I feel all right; comforted--and when he looks at me with those smoldering eyes--_I want him so badly_. 

It's almost perverse, how much I want to be near him at times. But then an hour or so would pass, and then I'm just comforted to be with him. Happy. I like that--that I can be happy because of him _and_ comforted by him. I guess it's kind of stupid, but it's hard for me to depend on anyone in that way--emotionally, mentally, maybe even physically. In a way, I've come to depend on him, though, and it's strange because I'm not surprised. Maybe it was the way he talked about Pietro, Todd, Freddy; his surrogate family and dear friends. Maybe it was the way he grinned recklessly every time he thought of something, just spontaneously, and decided in the next few seconds to do it. Or maybe it was the way he looked at me when he said, 'I love you.' 

A crash of thunder brought me back from that thought. I felt a little disoriented, like I had just woken up. The CD had stopped playing. It spun aimlessly in the stereo for a few moments before it began playing again, from the first track now. Brahms invaded my mind as I began to listen to the music again. I was feeling a little nostalgic because of it, I suppose, what, with thinking about my parents and Lance and everything. 

The floor creaked a little, from the direction of the bedroom door--it does that sometimes--and I listened for any other sound, but there was nothing. I didn't want to assume anything, but the odds were that someone was there. In time, I had come to trust my other sense--more than my sense of sight, at any rate. For compensation, say the scientists. More like for survival. 

"They say that he was in love with Schumann's wife," I tried softly, and felt ridiculously startled when I heard a voice reply from the dark, 

"Who?" 

"Brahms," I said after a little. It made perfect sense to me, but then again, a lot of things that are rational to me need clarification to others. The reason for that is probably that sometimes I forget to clue them in on my thought process; why I say the things I say. I guess it's true that it makes no sense if not taken in context. 

Lance was leaning against the wall, but it was so dim I could barely see him. He crossed over to where the stereo was, just to the left of me and a few feet back, and picked up the jewel case, squinting at it. 

"And that's who's on the CD?" he hazarded a guess, unfamiliar with and perplexed by the music so foreign to him and his tastes. I smiled. 

"He wrote the music," I explained, "But he's been dead for a while now." 

Lance didn't say anything for a while, then he set the CD case back down. He turned to face me, and I couldn't read the expression on his face. 

"What?" 

"Your professor says that you won't come out of your room," Lance was leaning against the wall again, right beside one of the stereo speakers. 

"What?" I repeated, genuinely confused. 

"You heard me," he pushed off with his shoulder then crossed his arms across his chest and pretended to find something interesting outside the window, staring long and hard at the rain. 

"I've just felt like being by myself, is all," I said, feeling slightly annoyed. It bothers me when people think something's wrong with me just because I'm in an antisocial mood. Even though I know it's because they're just concerned about my mental or emotional health or whatever, it still bothers me. I suppose it makes me feel like they think I'm just a basketcase, ready to completely snap at any time. Jean's the worst, really--every time I don't feel like talking, she asks me, 'What's wrong?' a few dozen times before leaving, with the words, 'You know you can always talk to me.' I wouldn't talk to her if my life depended on it, if only to defy those words--'You know you can always talk to me.' It's not just Jean--I hate it whenever _anyone_ says that to me. It feels so fake and cliché, like they're just saying it to say it and not really because they mean it. I mean, come _on_--if you really care about someone and are afraid that they'll lose it, wouldn't you come up with something better than that? 

"Yeah? Well," Lance reached over and stopped the CD, "any particular reason you're holed up in your room instead of having happy group-bonding sessions with your wonderful teammates?" 

He was being awfully sarcastic today, and it wasn't helping me any. I don't think he does it to intentionally irritate me, but it certainly feels like it, especially since he decided to turn off the stereo. 

"Knock it off," I told him, willing him to sense just how restless I was feeling. Though there's not much to be said about the development of my mental powers, he seemed to get the picture and pulled me into his arms, sliding down to the floor until we were sitting, his back against the wall, and my back against his chest. I felt his breath at the nape of my neck and shuddered involuntarily, unused to his physical being next to me for some reason, probably because for most of the day, it'd just been me, my CD, and the rain outside. It felt nice, though, being with him. I felt relieved, as if I didn't have to hold back something inside me anymore. I always feel like that whenever I haven't seen him for a long time and then when I do, he hugs me and smiles against the side of my head. 

"I missed you," he whispered, his lips right by my ear, and I smiled reluctantly, unable to resist the pull of his voice. I turned a little so that I could face him, and he kissed me, his mouth warm against mine. He smiled at me after we parted and I couldn't breathe. Leaning against him, I suddenly felt tired, his form solid behind me as I faced forward again and slumped against him, comfortable. I closed my eyes reflexively as he fumbled with my shades, gently lifting them from me--so careful that I barely felt his touch, the coolness of my glasses' frame leave my skin. They clicked softly as he reached up and placed them gingerly on top of the stereo. 

"Are you tired?" Lance asked--softly-his mouth moving with his words against my temple. 

"A little," I admitted, despite having really don't nothing all day. It made me feel selfish; not being productive or responsible about something for even the slightest moment. I suppose that's my upbringing speaking--yet, I can't help but think that I'd be this way even without having been submerged in military values for most of my childhood. It's just part of who I am. 

Lance wrapped his arms more securely about me, the warmth of his merely being there reassuring. Beyond the comfort of his embrace, I could hear the rain, its incessant pattering tapering off to a waltz-staccato, as if making up for the vanishing strains of Brahms that were fleeing my mind. Downstairs, there was the sound of Kurt and Kitty's voices, Jean's, and the sternly maternal murmur of Ororo's, a response to Kurt's open-ended laughter. I felt Lance's hand flat against my chest, right below my collarbone, and I tilted my head downward, nudging his fingers with my chin, speaking though reluctantly through my lethargy, 

"What time is it?" 

He shifted slightly, sounding a little groggy as he paused, probably glancing up at the clock, and mumbling, 

"5:55." 

"That late? How long've you been here?" 

He chuckled and I could feel the rumble against my back, barely there yet surely so. 

"About two hours, Scott." 

"Two _hours_?" I started and pulled away from him, reaching out blindly. He passed me my shades, our hands catching briefly for the moment, tingling. 

"Where's the fire?" Lance sounded amused, his dark eyes set on mine behind my invariable panes of red. He arched an eyebrow, as if to say that he thought that I had really lost it, flipping out as I did. 

"No fire," I muttered, running my hand through my hair as I stood up. I sighed. 

"I just...I hadn't expected to...well, you know." 

A blank expression from him showed that he didn't. 

"I didn't realize we'd been just sitting there for so long." 

Lance was moving towards me, straightening slowly as he got to his feet, a thoughtful look on his face. 

"What's wrong with 'just sitting there?'" 

"I--" I paused, hesitating. It weighed on my mind to tell him, but I wasn't sure if he'd understand, which was fairly ridiculous since I knew by now that I could tell him the most ludicrous thing in the world and he'd understand, if not comprehend. There's a difference there, too. Just because you understand something doesn't mean that you comprehend it. Like, I understand that the Brotherhood, Lance's family, doesn't have a lot of money, but I don't really _comprehend_ it-I don't comprehend what it's like to wake up in the morning and wonder if I'll have to eat moldy bread for breakfast; I don't comprehend how cold if feels in the winter because of a roof that leaks and hollow walls; _I don't comprehend_. But I understand. I understand that they're not well off, and I don't give them trouble about it. 

That's what I like about Lance-even if he doesn't comprehend, he'll understand. He'll listen--he'll _try_ to comprehend, too, even though he knows--we both know--that he might not be able to. In thinking about that, I turned to look at Lance-- 

"My parents died today." 

He was quiet for a little bit before asking, 

"Where's Alex?" 

I was glad he didn't say 'I'm sorry.' 

"He doesn't know. I...didn't want to tell him," I paused, trying to figure out how to explain it to Lance in a way that he'd comprehend. Lance never had any siblings, and even though he practically did now, it was still different. 

"If he'd known, every year this day would've been ruined for him." 

Lance was nodding. 

"I understand," he said, even though what he meant was 'I comprehend.' 

I wanted to smile at him and tell him, 'I know,' but the way he looked at me and the finality, solemnity, _contained_ sound of our words made me choke up, and suddenly I wanted to cry. He hugged me close and I let him, my face buried in his shoulder and his arms spanning my back. It was hard to breathe because of how quiet I was trying to be, and I turned my head to the side, wondering why everything was just a blurry red on black. Blinking rapidly, I pulled away from him, shakily, I suppose, because I could barely feel my hands let alone the rest of my body, and groped with my shades, squeezing my eyes shut and wiping at them with as much caution as I could muster. Lance made an irritated sound and batted my hands away, leaning toward me and kissing me. I must've tasted like salt, yet he still did it, then he pulled up, his voice so incredibly to my ears; 

"Hold still." 

I froze, unsure of what he was doing--then I felt the flutter-soft gentleness of his lips on my cheeks--one eyelid, then the other. God, I started to cry even harder, afraid of accidentally opening my eyes even a fraction and killing him right then and there. I must've looked ridiculous, my face al wet with tears and my eyes scrunched close like...like, I don't even know. I held my breath, and when I let it go, he was hugging me again, his hands combing through my hair so slowly, carefully--you would've thought that his spread fingers were a sieve searching for gold. 

"I love you," he whispered, pressing my shades into my hand, his mouth right by my ear. I tried to put them on, but my coordination was so off, my mind so cluttered, I could barely tell my nose from my ears. So Lance took them from me, wiped away the last traces of my shameful tears, and slid them back on--so gently, I almost started crying again. 

"I'm sorry," was the first thing I said to him after I opened my eyes. He smiled at me, kissed me again, then hugged me tight, 

"Don't be sorry," he murmured softly--everything he was doing was so soft--into my hair. I looked at him when he finally let me go and, for a while, I couldn't figure out what I wanted to say. That is--I _knew_ what I wanted to say, but I couldn't figure out _how_ to. That's the hardest, I think; the how. Why--there's a million reasons _why_; what--how could you not know?; when and where--you can always tell in a split moment no matter what. Then there's 'how.' Do I just hug him again? Do I kiss him? Do I smile, just a little more than usual, or say something in _just a certain way_ and hope he understands? 

"Thank you," I said finally, and he gave me this crooked smile--the one that makes me love him so much. 

We looked at each other for just a little longer, then he drew in a sudden breath, chuckling in a kind of mirthless way, looking down. 

"I should be thanking you," Lance sounded almost bitter as he said that, 

"I mean, you have to put up with all my shit, y'know?" 

"That's okay, though," I assured him, a little confused. Why was he saying that? Usually Lance is even more closed off than I am, if that's possible. I guess it is, though--possible, that is. When I talked to Pietro once--it's near impossible not to be on good terms with him, Todd and Freddy if I'm dating Lance--who's not just Lance's so-called surrogate brother but his best friend, too, and the guy had told me that Lance didn't usually tell them anything about his past. 'None of us do, really,' he'd said, a sort of dreamy haze over his eyes, 'on account of it being a pretty crappy place to be and everything, you know? It's bad enough that we've got to live with _that_ being our life; I think we'd go certifiably insane if we didn't keep our own little secrets.' 

It made sense. From what I've heard and seen, Lance'd been through Hell. And just now... 

"That's what people like us do," I finished, faltering. His head shot up and he looked at me with this guttering light in his eyes, something there that I couldn't quite touch on. 

"'People like us?' What's that supposed to mean?" 

"W-well, you and m-me," I stammered, taken aback by the intensity of his gaze. 

"You and me," Lance repeated, his voice low, then he kissed me suddenly before whispering almost urgently into my ear, 

"People like us...who are in love?" 

I reeled back, barely able to breathe. I tried to say something, do something--anything that might make him stop looking at me with eyes that burned so hot; electric to my own, like blazing twin iron bullets that imbedded themselves into my brain, sizzling the word 'love' there, branding it. We'd never defined our relationship before and that he'd try to now overwhelmed me. He'd said 'I love you' to me before--too many times, in my opinion--but I had figured that that was just his way of expressing affection-after all, who was I to tell him it was too soon for him to label this as love; to use that expression? Not that I didn't feel that this was love--it's just...saying 'I love you' makes me nervous. It's like making a promise--a promise that has been broken too many times. In my opinion, anyway. 

"Lance, I--" 

"No, it's okay," he wasn't looking at me again. 

"That was way out of line. Sorry." 

And it struck me just then that he seemed so vulnerable, the gray of the rainy sky behind him, the darkness all around. I looked up at the stereo. 

"Don't be sorry," I whispered and reached over, pressed play, and heard the CD whirring inside. Standing up, I felt slightly self-conscious, but I reached for his hand anyway, helping him up. Lance was looking at me, quiet confusion on his face. I smiled with what I hoped was confidence and said, 

"Let's dance." 

Lance tilted his head to the side and smiled back at me, winding one arm around my waist and intertwining his other hand with mine. I pressed my face to the crook of his neck and hugged him with one arm about his shoulders so that there was only a breath of space between us. I could feel our bodies moving together to the bass swell of Brahms' Romanze and I closed my eyes, imagining that I was introducing him to my parents; that everything was amazing and wonderful and good. My father'd love him, saying that he was exactly what we needed in our little family--the perfect son-in-law, and would he be interested in joining the Air Force? He'd say that I'd done a damn good job finding the right person for me and that we'd damn better be happy with each other. My mother'd baby him--Lance secretly craves that; he's had enough rough treatment back in the day that what I think he really needs I a maternal figure--and ask me teasingly, 'Will it be "Scott Alvers" or "Lance Summers?"' Lance'd cave in to her and she'd be determined to make him feel welcome; like family, no matter what. Alex would like him, too, even if they get off to a somewhat rocky start. I can imagine it all. It'd be wonderful--just the five of us(1). We'd have Christmas together--Mom'd make gingersnaps and Dad would light up the fireplace and tell us old military stories. We'd tell him to stop, but we wouldn't really mean it, and he'd know that. Later, Lance and I would sneak off to try to steal a kiss, but they'd catch us and we'd all laugh so hard, because it's Christmas and we're together...Just the five of us. 

God, I started crying again. I cried so hard and I felt Lance draw me closer. It was so easy to pretend in the dark--pretend that some part of Lance wasn't jaded by the world; pretend that Mom and Dad were still alive; pretend that everything could stay perfect forever. But nothing could. If I could--if--I would turn back time and put Lance there in our living room; just insert him in the old pictures and family portraits we have. But I can't. No one can. Lance'll never meet my parents; my mom will never get to heal his soul; Dad and Alex and all of us will never get to spend a Christmas together, or any other day together, for that matter. None of it can or will come true. None of it was real. It was just me, in the dark with the rain outside and Brhams on the stereo. And that was all. 

"Scott, Scott," Lance was saying softly, concernedly, 

"Scott, what's wrong?" 

I opened my eyes, sticky wet, and looked at him. For a moment, I didn't know how to say anything. I didn't comprehend anything and there was the same restlessness inside me. I searched for the words and finally just whispered, tentatively, 

"I love you." 

There was silence, then he smiled at me, kissed me, and whispered back, 

"I love you, too." 

The voices downstairs faded until it was just us as we continued dancing. And there, in the quiet, I leaned against him, closed my eyes, and was comforted. 

  


  


  


~fin~ 

  
  


  


  


1)And yes, Scott does conveniently forget about the rest of the Brotherhood :P Let's not blame the poor boy too much. 


End file.
